No Better Love

one

I sat under the dilapidated bridge, praying to every god I could think of (and a few demons,) that the damned thing would finally crumble and crush me. Anything that would keep me from going home. All that was waiting at home was a broken fridge, a possibly bipolar man with a temper, a leaky ceiling, and a dirty bed. I didn't have enough quarters to wash my clothes last night, so my three-day-old uniform smelled like liquor and cigarettes. ease, Please, please, please, kill me now... I thought to myself.

Under the bridge, a bit further down, was a lithe, spindly man who could have easily been an inkling from Tim Burton's sketchbook gone rogue. He held a guitar in his long arms, his bony fingers grasping at the strings. His thick-framed glasses slipped down his nose; he was so focused that he couldn't be bothered to push them up. Dark brown, nearly black curls cascaded down to his shoulders, falling into his face. This man was beautiful. Not in a traditional sense really, but I would have had him under this bridge if I were in the mood. And of course, if he were willing.

He played his guitar like a lover. Passionately, knowledgeable, stroking the strings like he meant it. Then he started to sing. I nearly lost it right then. Auto Tune wasn't an option even worth acknowledging. His voice was deep, dark, and sensuous. It had soul; it was broken-hearted and desperate, trying to find love and light in a night so cold and lonely. I felt his song in my bones. In that moment, I knew I could never deserve him. It didn't hurt to want him ardently, though.

Then he stopped.

"What do you think, love?" I nearly fell off the piece of rubble I was perched on.

"Me?" I asked. He smiled; his teeth were large in his mouth, but it fit him perfectly. He was after all, a large man.

"Yes you... Beatrice. You've been staring at me for the past four minutes." He said, looking at the name tag still attached to my apron.

"Oh," I flushed a vibrant red, "Sorry, um... It was amazing. Different. Beautiful..." I blubbered. He smiled again, melting me into a puddle of processed cheese.

"So why do you take refuge under the troll bridge, Bea? I can call you Bea, right? Or would you rather another name?" He asked. I smiled and shook my head.

"Not exactly. It's pronounced 'bee' as in 'honey bee'. Not 'bee-uh.' But same spelling. I am here, in hopes that this bridge will crush me and kill me. That way, I don't have to go home. And you arrrre?" I said quietly. I hardly ever spoke loud. I usually only spoke when someone else spoke to me first.

"I'm Andrew. Why don't we go somewhere you won't be potentially crushed by a troll bridge? Perhaps down to Phil Healey's? I'll buy you a pint." He put away his guitar and unfolded himself from his bit of rubble. I got up off of mine, dusting off my little black dress, and pulling bits of the troll bridge flora from my opaque stockings.

"I can buy my own pint." I looked down at my watch, hoping I could make it home a little while before Dad fell asleep. Sure, I thought. I can make it.

"Please let me buy you a drink. Not because it's the gentlemanly thing to do, but because you've had such a horrible day that you hope to be crushed by an unreliable bridge." Then he flashed his thousand watt smile. I couldn't resist him. Besides, he said it in a tone that meant he wasn't to be trifled with. It was different from Dad's tone; sturdy, trustworthy. Caring and perhaps worried.

The bartender pulled a couple of pints for Andrew and me, sliding them to us. Andrew laughed when mine sloshed a little onto his hand. Quickly, I grabbed a napkin and wiped it away. He retracted his hand. I shrugged.

"Messes freak me out. Especially when I cause them." Which was both the truth and a lie. The little shitty flat that I shared with my dad was spotless, but my room was a disaster. I wasn't going to explain this to Andrew, though. Instead, I told him about my paintings.